


Stillness

by Sword_Kallya



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Dissociation, Gen, Gren is a cinnamon roll, He's also a control freak, Panic Attacks, Runaan is disturbingly disciplined, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overload, This is not a fun time guys, Why is he in the army?, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sword_Kallya/pseuds/Sword_Kallya
Summary: Runaan's point of view, from inside the coin.





	Stillness

**Author's Note:**

> This... ended up being more sensory deprivation than sensory overload. Oops.  
> That said, _this is a torture fic._ I'm not going to try to put an age limit on it - God knows I was reading torture fic at twelve - but _please_ exercise caution! What happens to Runaan may seem fine, but it's actually pretty horrific.

Runaan knows curses. He’s cast several himself – the binding that still grips his arm could easily be called one. There is a reason that most of Xadia considers Moonshadow elves to be just this side of insane. (Actually, there are several reasons, their proximity to dark magic being only one of them.) Most of his experience is with the formal bindings, or death curses. Sometimes, something subtler than a blade in the night is called for. His speed in dealing out death – curses and otherwise – is one reason he was chosen to kill the king and prince of Katolis.

Begrudgingly, he finds himself impressed with the dark mage’s work. Runaan had occasionally been charged with returning a live captive to the Dragon King or other authority figure and a spell such as this one would have been _extremely_ useful. The pocket dimension tied to the coin is utterly blank. There is no “ceiling” that Runaan can find, no walls for him to climb. There is a light source where this place, for lack of a better word, is tied to the real world. However, the light shines on _nothing._ The ground, a featureless steel-gray expanse, extends on in every direction until the eye can see no more. The “sky” is a lighter-toned gray, and likewise absolutely featureless.

There is no sound except for his own voice. There is the light, but there is nothing to _look_ at, except for himself. There is nothing, in fact, to engage any of his senses. Apparently he doesn’t need food in here.

As a short-term method of transporting prisoners, it works. As a longer-term imprisonment, well…

(It took Runaan some time to regain control of himself after the curse was laid. The roughly coin-shaped circle of light was solid to his hands. He had shoved himself up against it, attempting to shatter the enchantment by main force. It had proved that, though he presumably could not die here, he could harm himself. His hands still ached.)

Ruunan spent the first… day, of sorts, walking. It was closer to marching, actually, keeping the time with his steps. Assuming time ran the same in here as outside, (Had that dark mage changed that? _Could_ he change that? Making time run slower here would be a _very_ effective method of torture. And very like the man.) he had marched for sixteen hours without even feeling tired. Runaan laid down to try to sleep anyway. The fact that he didn’t feel any different didn’t mean that there _was_ nothing different. There was no reason to do himself harm if he didn’t have to.

That was when he discovered he couldn’t _sleep_ here, either.

_Fine._

It’s the same process as walking, really. Count the breaths. In for five seconds, hold for five, out for five. His training had included meditation, though eight hours was a little ambitious. He tried it anyway. It was something to do.

The mental count of time was good. It kept him focused. After another eight hours, Runaan got back up and kept walking.

The light source was _following_ him.

It took him three days, by his count, to start talking to himself. He apologized to Rayla several times, in several different ways. He asked her forgiveness. He couldn’t imagine how she would reply. He answered all the human prisoner’s inane questions.

Somehow, he had expected his voice to echo. It didn’t.

Runaan counted out twelve days, sixteen hours, thirty-seven minutes and fifty-two seconds before he heard something that wasn’t his own voice.

“-not sure how many of these he has, we need to check to see if there are more, what in the world did Viren _do?_ ”

Six Sources protect him, that sounded like the other prisoner. Was he finally hallucinating?

“Hello?” Even his own voice sounded loud to his ears. “Hello! I’m here!”

_Idiot. They can’t hear you._

“Star and Sun, Viren is twisted but his spellwork is _elegant._ ” This voice was different. Would Runaan hallucinate a voice he didn’t know?

Was the light-circle getting _bigger?_

“I _hate_ dealing with dark magic. It always feels so _slimy,”_ the voice went on. “But I think, if I just twist _here-”_

Suddenly, the light enveloped him.

Abruptly, Runaan was aware that he couldn’t hear his heartbeat or breathing while in the coin. He could hear them now, _deafeningly_ loud. Someone caught him as he fell. Strong hands on bare skin was more contact than he had felt in _weeks._ He lashed out wildly, aiming for the chest.

“Sun _fire,_ that _hurts!_ ” The hands retreated and Runaan fell.

Cold stone impacted his hip, radiating spikes of pain. He _yelled._

That was a mistake. Taking a knife to his ears would have accomplished the same. Runaan clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed that the world would stop being too _much._

The hands returned. Runaan flinched away, whimpering quietly. “Don’t, _don’t,_ too _much!”_

The sound of someone cursing reached his ears. “All right, all _right_ , I won’t touch you. Can you tell me what’s wrong? I need you to talk to me.”

“Can’t,” and oh, but any other time Runaan would have _hated_ himself for that whimper. “Too loud. Too bright. Too _much.”_

“It’s not the magic,” someone else said. They sounded further away; distance and a low-pitched voice blurring the words. “The spell is completely gone. This is something else.”

More swearing, quiet and heartfelt. “Okay.” The sound of something being shredded. “Hey. Can you move your hands for a little bit? I’m going to put something over your eyes.”

Moving seemed to take far more effort than it should. Finally, Runaan managed to shift his hip, still aching. Soft, warm cloth covered his eyes, blocking out the light. Something tight and animalistic in his chest untwisted, letting him breathe for the first time in – a long time. A very long time.

The hands were back, pulling him up. There seemed to be more of them than there should be. He stumbled upright, leaning on the proffered shoulder. “Oof, okay, that’s… fine. Okay. So, uh, what’s your name?”

“I… am Runaan.” Speaking took effort. So did moving. Doing both at once was _hard._ “You… were the other prisoner.” Putting weight on his feet felt… a lot. Not worse than a week in chains, but too much.

“Yeah, I’m Gren.”

“Hello. Gren.” No human had given their name to Runaan before. “It is…” What was the human greeting? “good to meet you.”

Gren chuckled, low and warm in his ear. “You too.”


End file.
